Note Book Of A Girl: Entry 3

A field of green, fenced by tall trees and old brick slender own houses. All once were one, now parted to many.

Restful soles sit and lie upon a green rug of dry cut grass. Soaking up the last of the summer rays, of this late Indian summer in late September. Summer dresses with trainers, jeans with flip flops, every one showing off and embracing their own style. 

It has been a long summer hot and sticky.

Restless nights and tiring days and lazy evenings.

Walking the back streets home  on a slow sunday evening. he day light fading to a pink, blue and silver sky above London, silhouetting the roofs, the un used chimes and redundant TV aerials. 

The peaceful roads of a chaotic city A silence, a strangeness.

With the dead powered ipod in pocket. with no song playing n my ear. I realise how quite and peaceful he city can be.

When you say that you live in London, people think of the busy centre, Covent Garden and Oxford street, yet 10 minuets away is the quite suburber of town houses surrounding green squares, coffee shops and news agents and green grocers. 

Its like a world of serenity with would of chaos. 

Where once I world walk the too with head held low watching the pavement, grey and black. marked with gum and stains, and littered with unwanted waist. I find myself looking the buildings. Converted buildings, now with shop fronts. 

With the fading lighting I begin o see the movement of the people who reside within the red brick houses, painted all shades of colour. turning the lights on after a long day.

The slim phasic of a man at a window with a drink in hand.

I wonder if he lives alone, is he single, married, gay or straight.

From the faded features that could be seen, through the white net curtain hanging at the bay window, he looks like the kind that works out the kind you see in trousers and shirt what every the event. I wonder what he might do, manger, a banker, a doctor, a teacher, or may be just a good old shop worker.

I can but imagine.

a

The turning leafs from green, to with yellow tips. to red, to gold, to floor they fall, burnt golden brown decaying upon the ground.

The city squirrel runs along the wall. a leap of faith from all the tree, up it runs to is home. 

Birds fly in formation across the twilight sky. 

Singing birds sing the sun a good night.

The little white flower braking throw the concert. determination and skill, this little thing has.

Shadows of women at windows, laying tables and cooking. what strange layouts each house may have.

l

The sound of the traffic grows louder as the light grows dimer. I turn from the side street onto a main road. Where a que of traffic lines the road. Heading into the heart of the city a stream of red lights moving slowly almost to a stop. It would be quicker o walk. It would be quicker to cycle. rather then sit on this unmoving artery that feeds this city. 

The dull drone of engines the constant scream of beeping horns, screaming over nothing. 

All the things you see when your ears are free to see.

a

© sarah jane patel